Sinister
by Kitt Chaos
Summary: What motivates Left Hand? Why does he put up with it all? Character study of D from Left Hand's point of view!


Author's notes - 

Vampire Hunter D, the characters, names, situations and all legal and intellectual rights belong to Mr. Hideyuki Kikuchi and any legal entities he has granted rights to. I own no part of anything official of Vampire Hunter D, except for a deep appreciation and quirky affection for the characters and the world Mr. Kikuchi created for them. 

My entire knowledge base of the official world of Vampire Hunter D is contained in the anime movies, Vampire Hunter D and Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust. I do not know if my humble story is in accord or opposition with any part of the official stories in the books. 

Author's gripe -   
Why is my most constant muse the annoying parasite?! >_ Oh! For anyone who's read "Left-Handed Complement", "Night Terrors" or "Descent" - In this story, Left Hand is not who I supposed him to be in those stories! (That would just be icky!) 

**Sinister**

I am flying. My body is light, light enough that my forward speed and the surface of my wings let me skim on the very surface of the air. The sunlight, which seems so golden down among the trees, is electrum silver here in the high reaches. It still warms me, beaming down upon my outstretched wings and taut back. The air is cooler up here too, forcing me to find a balance between effort and output. If I glide too much I become too cold. If I work too hard, I overheat. 

Balance. The truest mark of a flying creature is finding the balance. For once that balance is achieved, only the slightest effort is needed to fly forever. The cool air and warm sun create thermal cushions of air, where I only have to move my wings the merest bit to stay on the course I choose, or flap them once or twice to keep warm. There have been times I have flown from sunup to sundown, high above the earth, skimming the thermal streams. True flight is almost effortless. 

There is no feeling in the world like flight. Mankind might dream of it, strive for it and abuse the laws of physics to mimic it, but no man has ever truly flown in balance, at one with gravity and air, in union with nature. True to his brutish roots, man bends the laws of nature, forcing her to let him ape what he desires so strongly. Fire, noise and violence mark the only way a man can fly. He can't feel the caress of the air and sun or the pillowy softness of the wind. His machines rend the air. The very force that keeps him in the air destroys the wind. There is nothing further from true flight than the raucous, plodding, roughshod way a man moves through the air. 

Utter freedom. A lightening of heart. Peace. Joy. Being. No sensation on the ground can ever comes close to this. I revel in the power of my delicate, light body and skilled wings. I skim along the air. I would laugh if I could. 

Something pulls on my back. It's a weird feeling, almost as if my back isn't really mine, or weirder yet, has a mind of its own. The delicate precision of how my wings are angled to the air and my forward speed, my very oneness with the air, is rudely disrupted. 

I try to turn my head to see what is happening and discover I can't move. My body is no longer my own. I falter out of the air, plummeting earthward like a rock or Icarian, brutish man who pushed nature's laws too far. My instinct is to bring my wings back into the proper alignment to cup and float again on the air but I cannot move. The gentle tide of air upon which I had been gliding tears at me as if it wants to rip my fragile body apart. I try to scream. There is no sound but the roaring of the enraged air. Merciful blackness claims me before... 

I wake. Sunlight falls into my eyes, stinging me with its intensity. My back pulls on me again in a way I can never describe, forcing me to stretch almost painfully, waking me abruptly, as it does very nearly every morning. It is the most awful way to wake up. I'd mention how horrible it feels, if I thought it mattered at all to the person who caused it. 

Waking from a flying dream is the worst. Nothing could be further from reality than those elusive dreams of peace and freedom. Or could they be memories? That is too awful to contemplate. Those dreams can bring me to the brink of tears when I am torn from them and must face the reality of my waking world. If that freedom was something I used to have...it makes what I have become that much more hideous. 

"Life is solitary, nasty, brutish and short," I say aloud. 

His gaze flicks over to me. It does not matter that I have seen him millions of times before. There's just something about his appearance that strikes with an almost physical force. I've learned not to gasp. It upsets him when I do. He never says anything, it's the almost infinitesimal thinning of his lips that tells me of his displeasure. Of course, there are times when that's exactly the response I'm looking for. Just not now. Not right after waking from a flying dream. 

There. That slight, almost not visible narrowing of his gaze. His eyelids have moved maybe the width of an eyelash. I can see it. So...it's one of those mornings. He's got no patience for nonsense. Things would be so much easier if it were in my nature to be compliant. If I'd be quiet, he's probably sort out his mood by midmorning. Unfortunately, for me as well as him, my nature is far too contrary to be quiet. 

"Oh? The silent treatment?" I observe. I know the nasty edge has already appeared in my voice. I'd been flying! I had been free! HE'd wakened me, pulling on my back in that awful way, waking me to this...miserable, mundane existence that has only one compensation. On a morning like this, I wonder if that compensation is enough to defray the wretchedness that is my life. 

Again that displeased glance. 

"Not even a 'Good morning'? How about 'How did you sleep'? Nothing? What did I do?!" Oh, it's going to be a bad day. I'm whining already! 

"You are," he says in his low, almost inflection less tone. 

Oh, geez! I'm always out of sorts after a flying dream, and he's in one of THOSE moods today! It's not going to be merely a bad day, it's going to be hell. He's going to punish me for every little transgression, not letting any of them slide like he usually does, and I'm as cross as two sticks. It just doesn't get any worse than this! 

He packs the few things he used the night before. I assist him as I always do. I have to admit, the feel of the sheet on the bed as I pull the covers straight and smooth the wrinkles out is soothing. It's not often I get to touch such soft and refined things. 

We're in a town. Which one doesn't really matter. It never does. He thrusts me unceremoniously into the malodorous dark. 

I can still hear. It's muffled, but not so badly that I can't understand when someone speaks. It's mundane stuff anyway. Buying supplies. Meeting a contact. Accepting a job. His life, and mine, measured by the bounties. How many? Hundreds? Thousands? Does it matter? 

The conversations are boring, variations of conversations that I've heard a million times before. I could stretch, mentally, and look around, test the air of the place we are in, but why would I? It's not as if there's anything going on I haven't seen or smelled so many times before. I could stretch mentally in a different way, shout without uttering a sound, and force him to 'hear' me. There are times I do just that; my challenge is to see how often I can make him lose his train of thought. Of course I never do that when something important is going on. 

I know it sounds like I hate him. Sometimes, I think I do. But hating him, really hating him and meaning it, would be as useless as hating myself. So I play games. I torment and annoy him when it doesn't matter and help him when it does. If I didn't...I fear he would simply ignore me. That, I cannot tolerate. I know I've pushed him too far when days go by and he doesn't even acknowledge my existence. The subtle digs and torments that he inflicts, the fact that I entice them...well, that's just the way we are. I admit it's dysfunctional. But, we make it work. We have to. This is his existence. And mine. 

A thread of my dream comes to me. I would normally try to fight it; living in dreams is useless, but today...I don't have the will to push it away. If he weren't in such a bad mood already, I'd tease him, just to distract myself from the memory of the dream. I consider it, but decide not to. His mood is so chancy, he might just start to ignore me, shut me out, cut me off, so to speak, if I piss him off. 

I've had dreams like the one this morning before. Flying dreams of course, those are the ones that wrench at my equilibrium the hardest, but there have been others. I've run across fields and through forests on all fours. I've climbed mountains with astonishingly sure-footed ease. I've swum in waters so deep light never touched my eyes. I've curled up with other warm, curled-up bodies against the cold moon shining down into our nest on a winter night. Thousands of dreams, filled with myriad perceptions, insinuate that I was not always as I am now. They tease with sensations so much more pleasant that what my waking world offers me. 

Maybe this is hell. I don't consider myself evil, but I readily admit I'm not good. All of my actions are motivated by selfishness. I have a mean streak a mile wide too. Perhaps this life, tormented by dreams hinting that I was not always the way I am now, is a punishment for my failings. I laugh at myself. I don't believe in some cosmic force keeping score! Perhaps I'm just ruminating too much. Stupid flying dream! 

Hmm? It's quiet. He's not talking to anyone. Maybe I should take a peek at what's going on... 

The scent of leather. It's always scent that comes to me first. I swear, if I never see another tanner's shop as long as I live, it will be too soon! I hate leather. I really do. The stench worst of all. It's amazing how fast leather absorbs oil and sweat and starts reeking. And it gets stiff. Sure, it's slow and subtle, but believe me, I know. After a while it feels like sandpaper. My fate is to live most of my life encased in leather. 

Suddenly, the leather is gone. It takes a minute, it always does, for my eyes to adjust to the light. Once I do, I see we are in the stable. I hear voices faintly now, but they are far enough away that he isn't worried. I see. We are closed in the stall assigned to him, away from prying eyes. He reaches for a currycomb. 

Oh. His mount might be a highly mechanized cyborg, but there is a natural horse under and surgically merged into to all that hardware somewhere. Various implants not only increase its durability, longevity, strength, speed and agility, but also temper its spirit, making it more predictable and controllable. More like a machine. 

The nature of the underlying horse is not so easily overwhelmed though. That's probably for the best. A horse's natural instinct is to run as fast as possible away from danger. I wish we followed the horse's instincts more often than we did. And horses like the attention that comes from being groomed. His horse might look rather demonic, but the creature whickers and strokes its snout along his shoulder. He reaches up his right hand to pet the long, velvety nose in return. 

His dark eyes are soft in his unguarded expression. I know he's forgotten I am here. It still happens, even after all this time. He looks so young when the stern worry lines ease from his face. More than anyone, I know that his skin really is as smooth as it appears. Though he prefers the shadows, his appearance, an admixture of dark and light, more accurately reflect his nature. I've been with him for so long, but I will never tire of how his cheekbone curves or the way his long hair flows in waves or the restrained power of his bearing. When it is quiet, like this, and he's genuinely forgotten that I am here, even this torturous existence I am now forced to bear has its pleasant moments too. 

It's warm in the stall. Drowsy. The rasp of the metal teeth of the comb as he pulls it through the horse's mane is rhythmic and soothing. Once in a while the beast turns its head and noses at his arm or shoulder begging a caress. Once in a while his hand reaches up to pet or pat or stroke the beast in reply. 

So, once again, I must witness the silent communion of horse and rider, full of caring touches and undemanding affection and not be part of it. I assist, of course, whenever I am silently called to do so, but I am emotionally removed from it all. The urge to bite rises in me. I don't resist it. 

The horse's alarmed whinny, as always, has the sound of metal in it. Instantly, he freezes, wondering what startled his horse. Not quite instantly, he spies the mark of my bite on the horse's shoulder. 

Heh, heh! He's aware of me now! 

"You!" he chokes out. 

The leather I hate so much strikes punitively across my face. I deserve it. But why should the stupid, mostly machine horse get all the attention?! Part of me realizes how pathetic it is that I crave any attention from him, even negative attention. Part of me wishes he would treat me as gently as his horse, maybe, just once, dressing me in silk rather than leather, as the detested leather is roughly scraped over my face once more. 

"That was unnecessary," he says in a low voice. 

Sometimes I hate that horse. 

******** 

It had been a hard day. Though we left the town, we hadn't found even a single sword fight that would have let him harmlessly vent some of his frustration. I'd been out of sorts all day from my dream, and consequently digging, nudging and taunting in planned, annoying bids for his attention. I'd really been a bastard all day. He has enough things complicating his life, he doesn't need my acting like a petulant child or jealous spouse adding to it. 

Sometimes I wish I could tell him that, let him know that I do understand. Tell him that... 

Feh! That's not my way. I'd been with him so long, I can tell he wouldn't want it to be. The friction between us reassures us that all is okay. I'll always tease and torment him, he'll always punish me. If it were any other way, we wouldn't know how to behave. Our relationship is too painfully, intimately close to permit any other conduct. 

But once in a while, especially when I have dreamed a flying dream, I wish... 

I wish I could show my affection as simply as that damned horse does. I wish...he'd touch me gently in return. Fleeting moments of reluctantly granted gratification are still mine. Each morning, he combs his hair. The feel of it is what makes me wonder what silk is like. Would it feel like being buried in his hair, if I were to wear silk? 

His breathing is deep and slow. It has been a hard day on both of us. He's such a light sleeper, I must be very careful as I creep with nerve-wrackingly painful slowness up from his hip, across the tautness of his side, the broad expanse of his chest and carefully...carefully...oh so softly, gently, don't breath too deep, don't...make...a...sound... 

I made it. His breathing is still deep and even. The curve of his neck where it meets his shoulder cradles me. I carefully lay face-down on the bare skin there. It bears a scent I'll never get tired of. I breathe deeply of it and expel every trace of the hated leather stench from my nostrils and even my memory. I can feel the slow, steady throbbing of his pulse under me, rocking me gently with every beat of his heart. 

He still sleeps, unaware. Why can I only be honest about how I feel about him when he's asleep? I'm very daring tonight. It has been such a hard day! Surely...even I deserve a bit of comfort after such a day. It's not like what I do now would even harm him, or as if he'd ever know. 

I swallow nervously anyway. My mouth is as dry as cotton. I don't think I have any saliva at all! 

I open my mouth and...dare to touch the silken skin beneath me lightly with my tongue. I don't lick...I just taste. There's salt and sweet in the flavor. Just like his scent, it's unlike anything I've ever sensed before. Surprised at myself, I pull my tongue back where it belongs and listen again. 

Thank heavens! If he had wakened...I'd taste nothing but leather tomorrow for sure! 

But such a guilty, purloined pleasure...I'd never dared that before. I probably never would again. First, he'd simply be horrified. I know that I disgust him. I recall those first decades when we were still getting used to each other. I'd wanted nothing more then than to find some way to fight free of him and find a new host, a simpler one I could control fully and not merely be a part of. A detested part at that. 

But, only death can release me. And though today has been hard, and many more hard days undoubtedly stretch before me, being part of him, well...I'd have it no other way now. In fact, when that time comes that he bites off more than even his formidable skills can chew, when the light finally dies out of his eyes for good and the tide of blood now flowing just under me recedes for the last time, I think I will choose to stay, and share that ultimate slide into darkness with him. I know his death would free me to seek a new host. But after this, after all the years we have shared, after all that he means to me now...I don't want to. I know I'll never find another host I could... 

...love as much. 

I know he's asleep, dreaming whatever dark dreams are his to claim. I know he won't hear me. I dare to say what I'd never venture if he were awake. 

"Today, I was so hard on you," I whisper to the man sleeping under me. "I'm sorry." 

There is no change at all in his breathing, no alarm breaking the tranquillity of his repose. His eyes stay peacefully closed, his pulse is slow and calm beneath me. 

His right hand, the one that I don't share, the one that is his alone, reaches up. It covers my back fully. Softly, gently, it presses me against the smooth skin of his neck and (dare I think tenderly?!) holds me there for a long moment. It retreats again. 

"Good night," D whispers. "Tomorrow will be a better day." 

~end~ 

------------- 

The phrase that Left Hand (mis)quotes upon waking is from Thomas Hobbes' Leviathan. Mr. Hobbes held a rather poor view of man and man's lot in life. I guess I think except for the 'short' part of it, it's a pretty good description of Left Hand's lot too. Mr. Hobbes' full quote: 'No arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear and danger of violent death; and the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.' 

Reviews, comments and constructive criticisms are always welcome! Please feel free to email me also if you see something awkward that needs to be clarified or fixed. I need all the help I can get! 

stargarde@stargarde.com 

One final (unrelated) note - For anyone who read "Insult of the Right Hand" I'm putting the final polish on a new Bat story (titled 'Just Once'), of which I've posted the first two chapters. Though there are references to D and Vampire Hunter D in the story, I don't feel the connection is strong enough to post it under the VHD section as a crossover. I'll place it in the "games: Castlevania" section instead. Please look for it there if you want to read it! ^_^ 


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